Briefs
by teabizarre
Summary: And Lord Voldemort thought he was batty.
1. Chapter 1

Briefs

-1-

There were some things you just never got used to – like not having a nose. Always he would be looking for it, or not looking, no, not exactly _looking_, just expecting it to be there in a non-specific way, and always it wouldn't be there. It was quite the shocker when you got up in the morning, like waking up to find your bed in the middle of the Atlantic.

That had actually happened to him once, but that was besides the point.

Something else Lord Voldemort could never quite get used to, besides milkless coffee and the shouting of the multitude of dead in his mind when he ate too much chocolate before bedtime, was the astounding – no, the truly _astonishing – _arrogance of the youth these days.

Harry Potter being the prime example, but again, besides the point.

No, the most current thorn in his flesh was not the nebulous youth he'd so vagrantly tried to kill off years before, but another one, same age, different sex. If he were one to use words like "lass", like the commoners that he found himself so frequently surrounded by of late, he would have described his Death Eaters' latest capture as a strange lass.

A _very_ fucking strange lass.

Loony – no, Luna – Lovegood.

Hmph.

There were some things you just sort of expected of people when you imprisoned them in the dungeon belonging to one of their peers' fathers. Hysteria, for one; oh, lots of that. Terror, too, was high on the list. Fear at the very least, certainly. These weren't callous assumptions to make, really, not when you'd been in the killing spree business for so long.

It was getting nigh on three decades, actually, but again: besides the point.

Loony, when he'd ordered her brought up from the dungeons for a cordial round of interrogation, had not conformed to his assumptions. Oh, she'd been dirty, yes, and there were tear stains of course, but she had not – as expected – dropped into a writhing bundle and begged for mercy. She didn't even try for silent defiance, which was usually second on the list of What Was to be Expected. No, she went straight to the bottom of that list: e) none of the above.

Hmph.

Lord Voldemort, having hung around for many years, had noted, in an aside, the growing temerity of the youth. He'd had first hand experience with it, what, with the sulky Malfoy child (though he still didn't know what an "emo" was). Malfoy's bizarre emotional patterns besides, he just hadn't expected this kind of behaviour. Luna's question, after he unsuccessfully tried to stare some sheer terror into her firm behind, still rung in his ears. He imagined (as he frequently did, he had a very _visual_ sense for things) the question reverberating in the air, dripping with the amalgamated arrogance of the thirty years of youth he had no patience for. At the time, he'd simply gaped – albeit, he comforted himself, in a terrifying, eyes-glowing-in-the-dark sort of way.

"What happened to your nose?"

Did teenagers have no respect for tyranny?

And while he grappled for some foreboding, she'd looked at him, frowning a very little, her strange, orb-like eyes probing his face – and the very obvious lack of nose cartilage – curiously. He couldn't even reasonably torture her for insolence because, as far as he could tell, she'd meant nothing by it. She just honestly wanted to know.

And he'd thought _he_ was batty.

And then he'd started phrasing an answer in his head; the words had arranged themselves on his tongue of their own accord, fleshing out the statement with a bare hint of menace, a menagerie of haughtiness and just the faintest whiff of dark indulgence, and before he'd become quite aware of it, he'd said, "Snakes have no noses."

Which was true but totally irrelevant to that particular conversation, which was supposed to have gone something like this:

"Lord Voldemort does not have to answer to your irreverent insolence, child! Now tell me [insert desired information here]! _Crucio!_"

Instead, and bewilderingly, it went like this:

"Snakes have no noses."

"Are you a snake?"

"I used snake venom to form this vessel."

"Oh, yes, I read about that. Harry gave an interview for _The Quibbler, _d'you remember? He said you rose out of a cauldron after dark bits got added to it."

"Yes."

"Did you like the article? We thought that you were using the Bermuda triangle to manifest massive—"

"--Nargle infestations worldwide. Yes, I read it. It was very interesting but rather misinformed. Speculative, even."

Another pause. "Can I ask you a question about the cauldron bit?"

A pause from the resident dark host. "Very well," he allowed, warily.

"Well, Harry said you rose out of the cauldron and then told that man with the glittery hand—Wormnose—"

"Wormtail."

"Yes."

A long pause, punctured only by Nagini's impatient slithering.

"You were saying?"

"Oh, yes," said Luna, looming vaguely out of her own thoughts. "Wormtail. You told him, 'Robe me,' didn't you?"

"Yes."

"And he did?"

"Yes?"

"All of you?"

An ominous pause.

"What do you mean?"

"Do you wear underwear?"

What a bizarre train of thought, he'd thought at the time, squirming and embarrassed. Astoundingly, he didn't think of smiting her until later. At that point in time, he only noticed how very palpably soft her neck looked; even dirty as it was, he wondered, momentarily, what pro's noselessness offered, and how curious she was to find out what he did or did not wear...

Then he'd caught himself and shouted, rather desperately, "_Obliviate!_"

There were some things you just never got used to.

* * *

Lord Voldemort stared long and hard at his reflection. He had to admit, even to himself, that it wasn't a pretty sight. As Luna had noted so astutely the week before, he had no nose, and that rather put a damper on the rest of his visage.

Well, that and the glowing red eyes with their catlike pupils. Probably charming under some circumstances – imminent world domination being the foremost example – but not at all in others. Like, for instance, when trying to woo a prisoner in one's keeping. A lady prisoner with no bondage tendencies. Bellatrix might get a kick out of that sort of thing, but probably not Luna Lovegood.

Loony. Weren't they both?

Lord Voldemort smoothed over his black robes appraisingly. He'd always thought of them as being tastefully intimidating – somber, serious, frightening – but now he was starting to wonder whether they weren't just dull. A dull old man, now _there_ was a concept he was quickly befriending.

What was it that teenage girls liked these days anyway?

Oh, if only he'd still had the diary horcrux. He'd been a real heartbreaker at sixteen. A murderer, too, now that he thought about it. Personally he thought that was impressive, but then he hadn't been a teenager in a very long time. "Cool" - was that the word they used, or had they moved onto something else?

He idly wondered whether Dumbledore had been "down" with the kids. It seemed likely. The fag had always been on top of his ballgame, apparently, if the slew of eulogies were anything to go by. Quite a few love notes in that coffin he'd bet anything.

Lord Voldemort scratched his powdery white cheek and so did his mirror image.

Wooing. It wasn't something he'd done in a very long time. Not even in his youth did he have any particular taste for it. Or _need_, come to think. Favouring someone with his stare – a stare free of blighted malice – had usually done the trick. Girls had swooned. Hell, even a few guys...

Which was all good and well, but it didn't help him now. Not unless...

He tried a malice-free stare out on his mirror image. He looked several sorts of grotesque, so he stopped trying and sighed.

How did one soften one's features, when they were pure evil?

He was starting to think that he would just have to scare her into liking him. He was an evil tyrant, it made perfect sense to him. He wouldn't be rude about it – he'd drag her from the dungeon, arrange a more comfortable room for her...surely she'd want a chance to clean up? Then he'd invite her to dinner. He would preen malevolently, she would stare at him dreamily. All very romantic, if Draco's _Young Witch Weekly_ was anything to go by.

Not that he'd read it of course.

But what would he wear?

And, more interestingly, what would she?

He suddenly had strange thoughts about her underwear. Strange but not altogether unpleasant thoughts...

He paused a moment to wonder whether he was some sort of pedophile – the girl was barely _seventeen_, for God's sake, it was still _illegal_ in some countries! But of course, he placated himself, it was perfectly legal in others...

Where women were subjugated and hidden beneath swathes of black material.

He squirmed a little. One thing he was not was a chauvinist. He was just pure, black evil. He hoped it didn't amount to the same thing.

...and besides: soon, he'd be the ruler of the country, and then he'd make his own damn laws. He had a brief vision of himself in the castle he would surely occupy, and how much nicer it would be, with Luna humming some odd tune somewhere in the background.

Possibly wearing just her underwear.

Dinner it was then.

"Lucius!"

* * *

**Disclaimer:** The characters, happily, belong to Ms JK Rowling. Yes, that pretty lady from Scotland. Midas touch and all that.

**A/N:** Please review.


	2. Chapter 2

Briefs

-2-

The Malfoys were suspicious, Lord Voldemort could tell. And of course they were frightened, but they were always frightened these days. Being in the bad Lord's bad book wasn't something you took lightly, really.

He hoped that someone had sent a note stating as much to Luna, just so they were all on the same page. _The Dark Lord's displeasure is something to avoid. Do not provoke his wrath. __Wear pink underwear!!_

Well, something to that effect. He liked his Death Eaters to show _some_ initiative.

He checked his appearance one last time while the Malfoys – all three of them – cowered in the corner. Wormtail was there, too, simpering uselessly.

"How do I look?" Lord Voldemort asked his audience, though he guessed their answer. People who were terrified by your nearness were tediously predictable. "Narcissa?"

"Refined," she supplied promptly, her fingernails clawing into her son's shoulder.

"Well? Lucius? Draco?"

"Powerful, master," said Lucius.

"Impressive," muttered Draco.

Lord Voldemort wished he could believe them, but he'd always been a realistic man. A tad melodramatic – he was wearing _imported_ dress robes, for God's sake, he had _melodramatic_ down to the t – but realistic.

Even imported dress robes, whether they were from Italy or not, could only do so much. He decided he would just have to compensate for his lachrymose appearance with his personality. And he had a _lot_ of personality.

He tweaked his robes a little.

"Have you done all I asked you, Narcissa?" he asked conversationally, pausing from his preening to pin her down with a chilling glare.

"Yes, master," she supplied. "The – the girl," she stuttered, "is waiting."

"Good. Now, do me a favour," he said, and then shouted, "_Obliviate!_"

He liked the Malfoys as much as he liked anybody, but he did not want them to remember his first date jitters.

* * *

Lord Voldemort frowned as he swept into the dining room. The long, shiny table – very visually dramatic when murdering Muggle Studies teachers – glinted dully in the candlelight. Narcissa, showing the initiative he so valued, had floated several candles over the scene instead of just lighting the torches. He noted also that the table was sumptuously laid.

Then he made a mental note not to use the word "sumptuous" ever again. It was too Gryffindor.

Loony – Luna – was waiting, orb-like eyes scanning the dim room in a vague, unsatisfied way. And, bless her, she was humming a little, though probably with more reserve than usual. Narcissa had wisely decked her out in blueish silverish robes that played up her eyes. Lord Voldemort was beginning to think that Narcissa had a real flair for this sort of thing.

As he approached, he wondered why Draco was still single, what, with all his mother's ministrations, but dropped this thought in favour of leering at his date.

"Good evening, Ms Lovegood," he said, keeping his tone cordial...almost, but not quite, pleasant. He'd found that overusing his polite voice unnerved people. Probably because what amused him so very frequently meant pain and suffering for others.

She switched her stare to him. She really was very pretty, once you got over her airiness. She had a look about her that suggested she often frolicked in flowery fields, butterflies and soap bubbles pouring from her aura. While singing something about hills being alive with the sound of music.

The latter unnerved Lord Voldemort, because a steady tune was suggesting itself to his consciousness, and he couldn't place its origins. He suspected the orphanage, so he dismissed it, and dismissed it thoroughly.

He sat down and watched her.

She stared at him some more.

Lord Voldemort suddenly realized that this was not going as fluently as he had hoped though, if pressed to answer what exactly he had hoped, he would have been quite at a loss. But since _hoping_ seemed to be first and foremost, he said, sounding more simpering than he would have liked, and rather more lewd, "I hope you found the room to your liking."

Luna blinked once and her mouth fluttered a little.

What, did she not like the Gothic style of the place? Personally, he thought it was quite grand. A little floral at times – when it came to interior decorating, Narcissa was as merciless as a steel trap with the brocade – but austere enough, and certainly contemporary.

...and that, Lord Voldemort deduced, was probably part of the problem. Unicorns, butterflies and soap bubbles: he could just tell that he and Luna were going to clash over his future castle. And by that he meant, she'd sulk at the dark glamour of his trimmings, and he'd give in eventually and let her do as she pleased on account of her underwear, which would be pink.

Wasn't that how it usually went? It seemed to be the norm when it came to his Death Eaters. The giving in, not the pink underwear. He knew for a fact Narcissa preferred red.

The silence was stretching uncomfortably, so Lord Voldemort said, speaking across his steepled fingers, "Lord Voldemort asked you a question."

_Dang it_ he thought, catching the third person reference a little too late. It always seemed to slip out when he was least expecting it and made him sound like a maniacal third world dictator. And third world he was not!

Luna smiled vaguely and tilted her head to one side.

"It's very pretty," she said, and left it at that, peering at him expectantly.

What, had they reached the hand clasping part already?

Apprehensively, Lord Voldemort loosened his steepled fingers and placed his hands – white and long-fingered and large – clumsily on the table, just in case. He felt incredibly foolish, and spoke as a distraction.

"You must be hungry," he said, indifferently waving his wand. Their first course – some ridiculously pompous kind of soup – appeared instantly. Luna's expression changed from vague dreaminess to delight – well, delight several shades short of its usual exuberance he guessed. But it would do for now.

She seemed uncertain whether to continue, so he picked up his spoon and stared hers into her hand.

Her hands weren't all that petite, he noticed, and a little too pink in the palm, but pleasing and, he'd bet anything, soft. Plump, that was the word he was looking for.

Oh shut up, he taunted himself, you sound like a Jane Austen novel.

Of course he had read the classics.

Hmph.

Luna hovered a level spoon of soup at her lips and darted it into her mouth. As it hit her tastebuds, her face curdled a little.

Curiously, Lord Voldemort tasted his own.

"It's leek," he stated.

"Yes," she said, and took another spoonful.

And, for the next five minutes, that was about that for conversation.

Lord Voldemort regarded her from across the rim of his goblet, groping for any topic that would carry them past the monosyllables. He recalled, dimly, the advice gleaned from Lucius' old _How to Charm Witches_ (not that he'd read it): its manifesto had been _compliments! interests! flirting! _in whichever order you were brave enough to attempt. Sullenly he recalled dwelling in Potter's mind a few years before, and how tedious he'd thought the mistletoe kiss. Now it seemed that the boy had yet something else on him. And he wasn't even that good-looking, once you got over the scar.

Hmph.

Desperate, Lord Voldemort thought about what he would say, if he followed the manifesto:

Compliments: "When I was interrogating your fellow students about your allegiances, I noticed that they remembered – rather scornfully – a pair of radish-like earrings of yours. _I_ think they look simply delightful on you."

Actually, the last line had worked wonders for Lucius when he'd first met Narcissa, although he had complimented her initially on her ancestry but with innuendo that suggested he actually meant her breasts. It had been both, and Lord Voldemort had always admired his astute use of the words "broad-chested".

Interests: "Lord Voldemort knows that you and your father are loyal supporters of Harry Potter—"

Which was sure to be followed by something along the lines of, "I'd rather die than betray him!" or "Why don't you have such a cool scar?" which would rent their relationship irreparably.

And lastly, flirting: "Would you like to touch my wand?"

Lord Voldemort snorted; _that_ was sure to get her screaming.

His wand.

He tried hard to not think about it.

Luna was watching him, alarmed by his nasal whine.

"Crumple-horned Snorkack?" she asked, and for one sickening moment Lord Voldemort thought she had read his mind.

"What?" he demanded sharply.

"They shoot up your nostrils when you're not looking," she chirped, "daddy always says that's what really happened to Cornelius Fudge when he...well, you know," she said, smiling translucently at him, "didn't believe Harry about you."

Lord Voldemort stared.

She nodded once, as if to say, Well, _duh_.

It was all getting too much for him, so he did what any right-thinking, egotistical man would do. "Dinner is over," Lord Voldemort announced haughtily, his voice icy to its very core. He glared at her, shoving his chair back roughly. She seemed to wilt a little; she slumped and returned her spoon to the table.

"Okay," she said, resigned, switching her protuberant gaze back to him. "Will you try to Obliviate me again?"

* * *

**Disclaimer:** Characters = Ms JK Rowling.

**A/N:** Was _The Sound of Music _out when LV was in the orphanage?


	3. Chapter 3

Briefs

-3-

That night, Lord Voldemort did not sleep. Not that he ever did – he sort of slumbered on his evilness, like it was a mattress – but after the catastrophic dinner with Luna, even _that_ was beyond him. He couldn't even muster up enough malice to startle Draco, who he'd passed in the hallway, and Lord Voldemort saw that as a sign of impending weakness.

He'd never felt this way about anything save his quest for immortality, and even that was beginning to look a little waxy by comparison. What was immortality without a little pink underwear--?

_Nonsense_, he told himself, pacing angrily around his suite. _Utter nonsense. You are the Dark Lord. Not _a_ Dark Lord, _the_ Dark Lord. You have survived everything – you have murdered Dumbledore, and you are inches – mere inches – away from defeating Harry Potter. You can have any amount of pink underwear that you desire!_

...just not hers.

His mirror exploded and he muttered nastily.

Oh, he knew there was any number of things he could do to force her hand. The first that occurred to him was, naturally, _Imperio_. It would not be an unpleasant experience for her. On the other hand, there was _Crucio_, which was sure to be several sorts of unpleasant. And there were lesser spells – he rifled through them in his mind – and potions, yes, but somehow, they felt like cheating.

_Yeah, cos god forbid you _cheat_, mate._

He really should stop interacting with the Snatchers.

What to do, what to do?

And suddenly, he found himself wondering: _What Would Harry Potter Do?_

Probably he'd bluster at it. Bluster and blush and throw out his chest and generally look like a dolt. Really, if Lord Voldemort had been Cho Chang, he'd have sent Potter's insensitive behind packing a lot sooner than she had. Trying to brush off Cedric Diggory like he had meant nothing – tsk tsk.

But thinking about Cedric Diggory and how handsome he had been did nothing to improve Lord Voldemort's temper. Fearing for the embellishments of his rooms, he decided to go flying. With his mood casting a shadow of its own, he swept from his chambers and down the stairs, his spider-like hands brushing the banister as he descended.

"Master?"

It was Snape. He paused, his foot on the bottommost step, waiting for Lord Voldemort to approach. Lord Voldemort did so with great reluctance, not pausing as he brushed past him and said, "Lord Voldemort is busy, Snape. What is it that you want?"

"The Hogwarts update?" Snape said, a little taken aback by his master's preoccupation. Hogwarts had, until very recently, been primary in his thoughts.

Lord Voldemort had forgotten – he himself had instructed Snape's presence. But that had been days ago, before he had been...distracted.

(...pink underwear.)

Oh shut up!

"What, have more second years raided your potion store?" he sneered, striding now down the lane outside and the strutting, moon-white peacocks prissing about on the high, dark hedges.

"No, my lord, it is just that—"

Something in Lord Voldemort's expression must have tipped him off; Snape fell silent, waiting, face as wary as it always was when Lord Voldemort became excited. Something had just occurred to Lord Voldemort and understanding – not to mention a pinch of manic joy – ensnared his features. He halted abruptly by the wrought-iron gates, glancing over his shoulder at his servant.

"Severus," he said, his voice plucking ice and velvet torture, "Lord Voldemort has a task for you."

* * *

Severus, too, was suspicious, but that was the least of Lord Voldemort's troubles. There were a vast array of nasty things happening: Harry Potter escaping, _again_, blood traitors running amok, Bellatrix's most recent slurge of fantasies involving ropes indecently conjured from thin air; but the most worrying was also the most trivial, considering.

Lord Voldemort glared malevolently at Draco, who blanched over his fried chicken without meeting his eyes. It was then that Lord Voldemort knew beyond any shadow of a doubt, without even needing Legilimency: just. Freaking. _Knew_.

The Malfoys nibbled at their food nervously, giving each other panicky, surreptitious glances when they thought he wasn't looking. He watched them wordlessly, not touching his own food. In particular, he watched Draco. Watched him, and sized him up.

Of course he could see the appeal. Draco was a bit skinny about the waist – Narcissa's contribution to his physique, that and the large feet – but tall and broad-shouldered. His face was somewhere between handsome and fetching, the chin a little too pointed but odd enough to attract a following all its own. He had dimples when he smiled, and his eyes were a rare sort of gray.

But it was the hair.

_Ye gods the hair!_

Hmph.

His hair was a sort of yellowish pearl colour; it hung carelessly around his face, straight and silky to the touch. Lord Voldemort knew the latter for a fact because he had, on more than one occasion, dragged Draco back onto his feet by his blond mane. With sudden discomfort, he thought that Draco's hair was only a few shades lighter than Luna's.

And then he wondered what it was that Draco saw in her, and if she saw that something right back.

Because, somewhere, somehow, _something_ was being seen.

Dumbledore would probably have understood it, but then Dumbledore had read one too many Mills & Boon. This Lord Voldemort also knew for a fact: he had seen them, hidden as "The Complex Arithmetic Encyclopedia" in Dumbledore's office that night he had applied for the Defense Against the Dark Arts post.

Foolish old fag.

Lord Voldemort sullenly realized that Draco would have made a great coverboy for one of their bumper editions, featuring as a Swedish prince or a rogue general in Egypt, or perhaps a pirate.

Draco shifted wretchedly, and his hair fell across his eyes.

Definitely a pirate, thought Lord Voldemort, and looked daggers.

* * *

Lord Voldemort sniffed at it suspiciously. There was the tang of algae that he associated with the Slytherin common room, that odd smell people got when you tortured them long enough, and the whiff of an evil potion brewing in the crisp night air, ready to restore him to his new vessel.

So this was it, he thought: Amortentia. The strongest love potion in the world.

La dee da.

Lord Voldemort had once brewed up a love potion, in his last year at Hogwarts. That was about the time Dumbledore had started with all his "love is great" nonsense. And, just to prove him wrong – to prove that _love_ could be manufactured if you had enough sense to read a book – he had brewed up the heady mixture.

Only, back then it had smelled like algae, the overgrown, rambling garden of the Gaunt house, and butterbeer.

It had been wildly successful, too. He doubted he'd have gotten Bellatrix married off to Rodolphus otherwise. Even back then, before she discovered all the magazines, she'd been two pints south of normal.

"Batty", that was the word he was looking for.

Which reminded him: Loony.

Lord Voldemort examined the cauldron, then scooped up a goblet full. Snape watched silently; Lord Voldemort could feel his dark eyes boring a hole into the wall opposite, trying very hard not to appear to notice what his master was doing.

"Thank you, Severus," he said, coldly, because hey, that's just the way he spoke. "Your master appreciates your service. Now leave me."

Snape gave a small, jagged sort of bow and departed, his black cloak fluttering dramatically around him as he struck down the hallway. It was something Lord Voldemort had always admired. For some reason it never seemed to work for him. Oh well – when you had vertical pupils, who _needed_ a billowing cloak?

He turned his attention to the brimming cup he held in his hand. It was time.

Luna stared at him curiously as he carefully placed the brimming goblet in front of her. It shimmered, pearly white, almost the same colour as her skin. A strange, purposeful euphoria was settling over Lord Voldemort, and he smiled evilly. This was the way he looked when he was aroused, and by all accounts, it was frightening.

"After our last conversation," he said, using his most silky voice, "I thought it would be...prudent...to procure a lasting immunization against Crumple-Horned Snorkacks. We wouldn't want what happened to Cornelius Fudge to happen to any of our magical citizens, would we?"

Luna shook her head.

"Well, then, drink up," he commanded, trying his best to hide it as a friendly request. It didn't work.

Luna looked at the goblet, bemused.

"All of it?" she asked.

"Yes."

A pause. "Don't you want some?"

Lord Voldemort gave a sliver of laughter. "I do not need protection against these creatures."

"That's exactly what you'd say," she stated serenely, "if there was one in your head already." And she leaned forward, looking intent upon smiting it from his matte bold head with her flat palm.

It happened very quickly. Somehow the tumbler containing the alluring potion soared through the air, and somehow some of its spilling contents slammed into Lord Voldemort's open mouth as he reared away from Luna's grasp. He was on his feet, coughing, and something sticky and pleasant was rolling down his throat...

Munch munch, he thought.

_You must stop this! You are _the_ Dark Lord! Stop this at onc—_

But this last voice was drowned out in a bubbling rush of glee: there, sitting at the table, looking terrified, was the prettiest girl he had ever seen. Curly white-blond hair; pale, pale eyes; skin the texture of silk. Why had he been holding out? he wondered. He was _the_ Dark Lord and she was his for the taking.

Ooohh, _pluck_. He bet she smelled floral.

He loitered towards her, and his smile was positively _oozing_ with charm.

* * *

**Disclaimer:** The characters featured in this fanfiction belong to JK Rowling. Let us just be grateful she lets us borrow them from time to time, to do nefarious things with them (as long as we clean them up afterwards and return them before morning, of course)...

**A/N:** What's more frightening than LV pulsing malice? LV infatuated.


	4. Chapter 4

Briefs

-4-

Somewhere in his love addled brain, a part of Lord Voldemort thought Luna looked rather less terrified than she ought to. He was positively _leering_ at her, and he hadn't even said anything about the spill of love potion down the front of his dress robes. Which were, you'll recall, imported.

While Lord Voldemort felt split in himself on the best of days – he was getting along in Horcruxes, after all – this _stickiness_ was almost a new feeling, so long ago had he felt it, and together with the dichotomy that was his core personality, he felt quite strange. Queasy, but delightfully so. He had the oddest urge to lick icing from his fingertips and do a little jig.

Not all at once, obviously, unless it was really _good_ cake.

"Did it work?" Luna asked, her head cocked to one side and probably mulling whether _his_ head was now devoid of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks.

His head was, but that was the only body part Lord Voldemort could vouch for.

He felt all hot then and, like any self-respecting Slytherin, sneered down his nose at her. Except, he had no nose. So he did the best he could. The red eyes helped.

"Of course it did," he said, with the sort of voice one would have if one were ungloved hands in the dead of winter.

"That's good, then," she said, and smiled.

Several seconds passed. Lord Voldemort felt odder still. He wanted to simultaneously run from the room and never leave it. If his face hadn't been burned off from the inside, he might have blushed.

He remembered one of the last occasions his much-acclaimed hollowed cheeks had been flooded with blood. He thought about it now because it felt terribly, terribly familiar.

It had been in his fifth year. There had been an unexpected growth spurt.

* * *

"Oh dear God!"

A nervous, surprised splash of water and a furious crossing of legs. But it didn't want to go away.

"Tom? You alright in there? I heard a scream." Horace Slughorn hammered on the Prefects' bathroom door, his paternal tone peeking through all the small, unguarded spaces. Tom furiously dragged more bubbles around him.

"I'm fine, thank you, sir. I'll—I'll be done in a minute."

He stopped breathing, waiting for Slughorn's footfalls to recede. Then he let the pent-up air out in one long, desperate whoosh.

Oh dear God.

He created a little cubbyhole in the bubbles and stared down, queasy.

Having a penis had always astounded Tom Riddle, and whatever astounded him he either a) researched or b) ignored. With his penis it was the latter, and he was usually very happy with this arrangement.

But now he wondered. Perhaps if he'd paid more attention, it wouldn't have gone all...

He rearranged some bubbles and dipped his head.

Oh dear God.

What was he going to _do_ with it?

He pushed the bubbles together before digging out a hole again.

It stared back, unrepentant. Tom Riddle finally thought he understood what Dumbledore's Mills and Boon meant with "throbbing".

He pushed the bubbles together again and considered.

It did not seem to be going anywhere, so he'd have to deal with it. But that might involve actually physically _touching_--

No!

Oh dear God!

His head swam and his knees got all light; if he'd been standing, he'd have wobbled. He felt the blood collect in his cheeks and wondered wildly which of his heads would explode first.

A few seconds later, as a strangely pleasant cramp seized him, he got his answer.

* * *

"It says here, 'fornication'," said Lestrange, flipping the book over to read the cover.

"What?" Tom demanded, dropping his quill.

"Teleportation," Lestrange repeated, frowning and cautious.

"Oh," Tom said. "I thought...never mind!" he sneered, and Lestrange retracted his feet from the desk and went about his studies with more zeal than before, shooting the others an alarmed look.

They all shifted in their seats and discreetly put their hands on their wands. They weren't taking any risks after the previous week's incident, when he'd hexed Nott for pointing out the school's new besoms.

In as much of an aside as his blood-flustered brain could spare, Tom thought it made little difference whether they had their wands or not. He could feel _his_ wand in his pocket, hard and almost running the length of--

He shoved away from the desk and stormed out of the library, jogging to get away before the tell-tale blush would spread _elsewhere_. He shuddered to think what anyone would say, if they saw--

The thing, the monstrosity. Oh dear God oh dear God.

He was out of breath when he finally reached the boys' bathroom. He locked himself in a cubicle and desperately tried to distract himself by thinking about the motion picture they were going to see at the orphanage that summer, the one he was planning on slipping to find his lineage.

The seed he'd sprouted of.

Oh dear God!

It was _everywhere!_ He could feel it crawling all over the place, degenerate and disgusting and furtive and tingly. Wringing his hands in his hair, he kicked his bookbag into the corner of the cubicle; as it thumped into place, someone outside said, "Hello?"

The voice was maddeningly feminine.

"This is the _boys'_ bathroom!" Tom shouted. He considered stomping outside and brandishing his wand but his cheeks got even hotter at the thought of confronting a _girl_ with his _wand_.

"Tom?"

It sounded like a Slytherin girl called Uma. He'd always thought it was a stupid, ridiculous name, but now it seemed so...alluring. Uma. It suggested thrusting: uhh-mah.

"This is the--" he began.

"Oh, I know," she interrupted. She'd stopped in front of his cubicle, and he could hear the thin, not entirely unpleasant scrape of the wood of her wand against the grain of the door. "I saw you dashing in and thought...well..."

His chest felt tight, because he'd stopped breathing.

"Thought—well—what?" he demanded, blood pounding all over the place.

She scraped her wand slowly across the door, trailing it ever so softly in slowly tightening concentric circles.

"The Ancient Ruins essay--"

Tighter.

"--due Monday--"

Smaller.

"--said we could choose--"

So close.

"--will you help me? Tom? Tom? Are you alright? Are you having a fit?"

He couldn't blame her for thinking that. It was just _everywhere, _and then the door exploded out of its frame like words sometimes exploded out of brackets.

Oh. Dear. _God_. The blush pounded in his cheeks and all there was, was sweet oblivion.

Afterwards, he had to obliviate Uma and redo most of the bathroom, but, all in all, Tom thought it was totally worth it.

He couldn't attend Ancient Runes for a week, though.

* * *

So _that_ was who she reminded him of. Uma. _Uhh_-mah.

"My Lord?"

Lord Voldemort turned with the sort of reluctance that frequently cost people their lives. Not that Snape had anything particular to fear; he trusted him, if only because the man was too feckless to be duplicitous. Lord Voldemort sometimes thought that, had Snape been a Muggle like his father, he'd have ended up as a stand-up comedian.

Now he merely swept and primped his mystery.

"What is it?"

Snape was standing in the doorway, his dark eyes moving between his master and Luna, who was inspecting the now empty goblet with grave concentration.

"I merely wanted to inquire, my Lord, whether the potion was to your—to your satisfaction?"

He had to give it to Snape. He didn't so much as bat an eyelash when he noticed the stains on the (imported) dress robes; he just looked like he'd swallowed something sour, which was to say, he looked like he always looked.

"Yes, thank you, Snape. Now, leave us," he added dismissively, turning back to Luna. The bright attention in her eyes as she surveyed the cup made his stomach go all tight and squishy, like he was giving birth to butterflies. Flappy.

Loony.

"I have an antidote on hand," Snape added quickly. _I'm just saying _his tone of voice seemed to suggest.

"Leave us," he told Snape again, and the words were all the more menacing because he didn't often have to repeat himself.

"Yes, my Lord. Of course." Snape's words sounded sardonic and he gave a stiff little half-bow before jerking upright and sweeping from the room, closing the door behind him with a tight snap.

Lord Voldemort dismissed his behaviour. He'd been busy reminiscing, and of not entirely unpleasant things. This made for a change, he had to admit. He usually saved his meanderings down memory lane to plan vengeance; other than that, he lived for the moment.

But having remembered Uma, he couldn't help the next memory that came up. The two were basically intertwined.

* * *

Two weeks after he blew the zipper off his pants and the door out of its frame, Tom Riddle was inching down a dark corridor somewhere outside the library of Hogwarts. This wasn't, in itself, unusual; he spent most of his free time roaming. What was unusual was the inching part.

Tom Riddle feared little, largely because he could out-hex anyone on the planet. But what did you do when you _yourself_ were the unknown quantity?

It had been a fortnight of guilt-ridden, pleasure festering hell. When he wasn't consumed by it, he spent time alone in the Library, doing research, but there didn't seem to be a single spell, hex, potion or charm for his particular problem.

It was getting out of hand, and he meant that in the most literal of ways.

He sometimes wondered whether he'd been cursed. Maybe someone had put a growth spell on him, or something similar. It was the only explanation. _There was just no stopping it_. He'd stolen MacNair's measuring tape in Potions to confirm his suspicions.

Boy, had they been confirmed.

He confirmed them three times in two hours.

He inched some more, glancing over his shoulder to check that there was no one in sight. Of course, they wouldn't be able to see him—he'd done a Disillusionment Charm on himself. He was only inching because, since it began, the crotch of his pants were too tight to properly handle the influx and the friction--

He scuttled quickly into the dark recesses of the Library, desperately willing the shelves to give him the answer. It was the first and last time in his life that he prayed. He'd already considered giving Dionysian worship a go, before he read some of the rituals the adherents supposedly participated in. He'd had to confirm his suspicions again.

He started in the Restricted Section this time. He was not totally unwilling to just curse it all off if it came down to it. Good riddance to bad--

There was a shuffle and a mild giggle somewhere near the entrance of the Library, and he froze. He could hear two people stumbling around, whispering to each other. They stopped a few shelves from him, in the Transfiguration section.

There was another peal of giggles, higher this time. He recognized the voice.

_Besoms_ he thought. And _Uhh-mah_.

He found himself inching around the shelves, almost as quiet as the furtive little gasp that escaped the lips of the boy with Uhh-mah. She giggled again and Tom was sure he heard the sound of fabric being dug out of the way. He peered around the corner and, sure enough, Kyle Diggory, a stupid but attractive Hufflepuff, was fumbling with all sorts of catches and buttons.

"_Imperio_," he muttered, and Diggory shoved off. He directed him back to his dormitory.

"Tom?" Uma said, surprised.

"About that essay," he replied.

* * *

"He said not to interrupt—"

"Out of my way, Cissy!"

The two sisters burst into the room in a whorl of black fabric, drawn wands and a few threatening-looking sparks, but for all the furore of their entry, they froze pretty quickly when they saw what was going on.

Luna looked up at them expectantly; Lord Voldemort stood beside her, a little way away from the table, and by now the spilled Amortentia had congealed into a thick tack on the front of his robes.

"My Lord!?" Bellatrix said, her dark eyes taking in all of his considerable evilness.

"Bellatrix, your sister was quite correct," he said quietly, in a honey-sick sticky voice that issued straight from the depths of Hades.

"But my Lord, there is news—Potter--" Her voice snapped off when Narcissa squeaked, in the shadow of her sister's ever-prevalent insanity, "_Draco?_"

Draco stood half-hidden by his mother's indignity, but he squared his shoulders and tried to make eye-contact.

"I came to see if I could—could help."

His eyes dashed up to Lord Voldemort's, and then to Luna's, where they lingered. Lord Voldemort glanced around in time to see Luna tilt her head at him in a slightly bemused way before smiling her transparent, soap-bubble smile. His stomach sunk a little, like there was some kind of butterfly genocide in progress.

The Amortentia tasted a little funny in his mouth, too, and he realized it was wearing off; everything had a little halo around it, and it was sort of nice, in a Dumbledorian kind of way, he had to admit, and all the nicer because it was clearly entering its dying throes.

It was yet another familiar feeling: he remembered how things with Uma had turned out, and a few more butterflies were brutally cut down.

So it came that he did the only nice thing, the only thing appropriating love as Dumbledore had understood it. Not that he'd ever have admitted it, of course, and not that anyone ever asked.

"Narcissa, Bellatrix...outside. Immediately!" He stared evilly at them and they scuttled from the room, exchanging looks and muttering only when they were in the hallway. Draco lingered resentfully, his shoulders sagging a tad. He was probably anticipating some form of torture, and his hair was in his eyes.

Maybe not a pirate, thought Lord Voldemort. Maybe a Swedish prince after all.

Hmph.

"Take Ms Lovegood back to the basement," he instructed him coldly, raising his chin and bestowing a glare only as Lord Voldemort could. "And I will not require _your_ assistance any time soon," he added, sneering. "Get out of my way!"

Lord Voldemort swept darkly from the room, leaving the blond boy to eye the blond girl, who'd smiled at him and asked, "Do you still play Quidditch? I quite miss Quidditch..."

Batty. He strongly suspected it was just him, though, and you know, that was okay.

The last tangs of Amortentia were bitter in his mouth.

_Finis_

* * *

A/N: Many, many apologies that this took so long to get finished! Hope it was worth the wait, or, failing that, at least not a complete waste of time :) Please review.


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